He’d never praised her. Not directly. But the next day he’d brought home a pair of kid-sized gardening gloves. She still had them. Somewhere. She took a long sip and let the cold settle into her chest.
In the morning, she reread the letter. “You were the only one who stayed.” There it was again, the weight of obligation wrapped up as praise. As if her staying had been inevitable. As if that was love. What she wanted was for him to tell her she didn’t have to. That she could have gone and still been loved.